


Supernova

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Try as he might, Edge just cannot get Bono to slow down, nor stop entirely. Which should not come as a surprise, given that it's Bono he's dealing with. Set during the first leg of the Elevation tour.
Relationships: Bono/The Edge (U2)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 14





	Supernova

**Author's Note:**

> So there I was, supposed to be doing homework but instead writing another fic when, while looking for something else, I stumbled across a Bono interview from 2004 which made my brain go hey man, you want another fic idea, well here you go, and you're not going to be able to stop thinking about it until it's done. This happened at about 3am, the discovery of this interview. So stayed up all last night and wrote 80% of this in one go, then came back a few hours later and finished the damn thing . . . oops? But it's out there now, so let us never talk about it again okay!??! Also, there might be a couple of things in here that kinda relate to a couple of my other fics, because there are some images in my mind I just can't shake. And like I said, wrote it instead of sleeping, am very tired, so if there are any errors or tense slippages, feel free to let me know so I can fix. Love love xx

You told me recently (and not so recently) to stop, just stop whatever the fuck I happened to be doing at the time that you weren’t gelling with. I think a small part of you actually believed that it would work on me, which was honestly surprising, The Edge.

You know me. There are so many four-letter words that I idolize, that exist in my world to be spoken by and toward me. Stop? I am both unfamiliar and offended by the idea of such a suggestion. A dirty word, that one, but only when it’s directed my way. Or at you. The two of us together, being told by a higher power to halt proceedings when we are so close to moving mountains, or harnessing the brawn of the universe, our single intent being to make the stars shine that little bit brighter.

Messy business, some might say. Those days and nights when you and I come together sharing similar thoughts, only to find that cosmic shift just out of reach.

Perhaps that is simply how it’s meant to go. Or maybe there will come a day when we figure it out and, in the process, become closer to God and the universe—or at the very least, our tiny, expansive galaxy. I imagine then we may realize that there is no other way but up. Our heads have a habit of finding themselves in the clouds already. Imagine what a hearty push from below could achieve?

Dangerous business, others might say. Humanity is not built to withstand space, but that hasn’t stopped us, has it? Who knows? Maybe so many of us truly are destined to do more than look up and dream. I’ve no doubt that you’re one of those people. In fact, when I say you’re from another world, I’m only half-joking.

You told me recently (because you tell me so many things, and I absorb them all, even if I don’t always know what you’re fucking on about) that the word _supernova_ has crossed your mind while watching me on stage. A brilliant explosion fated to collapse and lose its heat, or become a supermassive black hole upon leaving the audience behind.

"You don't think I'm hot when I come off stage?" I asked in response, my put-upon dejection causing you to chuckle as you rubbed my back reassuringly. 

"I was thinking more the latter for you."

"So you _do_ think I'm hot off stage?" I clarified, receiving a smile and a long look, one that said _you don't want to start that tonight_. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but I was a good boy when it counted most. At least some of the time, anyway. "Actually, let's not worry about that now, because if I'm hearing you right, what you're doing is sitting there calling me super massive. Would I be correct, Edge?"

"In relation to a black hole, B."

"Sounds more like you're being sneaky about calling me fat."

"Not necessarily," you said, biting back your laughter. "Have you considered that maybe I'm saying you're extremely tall?"

"No one's going to buy that."

"That's a good point, actually. What about average? Though I suppose no one will buy that either."

"I'll still take it," I said, then shoved you. "You fucking wanker."

There is also a third option when it comes to supernovas, one that you don’t mention—the subject of being completely destroyed. It’s contradictory, of course, because to collapse is to eventually stop, and Edge, you know me. And you also know that the audience is never out of reach, even when the stage has been left behind. Even when I’m performing for an audience of one. Like a politically minded individual itching to get me the fuck out of their office.

Or you.

Another man might have been offended to be associated with a black hole offstage, but not me. It’s almost a relief to know you consider my gravitational pull to be that strong, that I don’t have to exert myself trying to draw you in and can therefore dedicate all my energy into putting on a show. A show for you. You know, something innocent. Or teetering on the edge of outrageousness, of playful flirtation.

It depends, really. On both of us, on how we’re handling the world in a single moment. Sometimes, we both realize a little peace is necessary to thrive.

“You’re not listening at all, are you?” you asked me, a month or two ago, maybe more. One of those quiet reprieves of ours brought to a stop by your resigned amusement. But I was still performing for you, even if it wasn’t needed.

“I listen to everything you say, Edge. I’m like a sponge, you know. Absorbing your every word. And being glad for it, might I add.”

“That makes me feel incredibly seen, Bono, thank you.”

“You are very welcome.”

“You’re completely full of it, however.”

“Am I now?” A tired chuckle was all I had in me that night. “I suppose I am.”

Your smile spoke of patience, of understanding—affection, even, always so much affection—but your eyes voiced a quiet, nonsensical concern: _I’m losing you_.

“I’m listening, The Edge. I’m right here with you.”

I don’t know, maybe there is some truth to destiny, to the thought of reaching beyond the clouds. If I’m a supernova, then what are you? Something else in the sky. An immovable object, one that shines bright but not brighter. I am, after all, the singer. It’s my job to conduct enough energy to get us where we need to be, or so people (and myself) keep telling me. To become fuel while you’re purely concerned with how we’re going to make this rocket fly.

But who knows, Edge? Perhaps you’re a supernova too, masquerading as fucking Jupiter. You’re so much better at stopping than I am, but only sometimes. Only when it suits. But I don’t really want to consider the word destruction in relation to you. I’m not prepared to even begin thinking about our mortality. I’ve already got enough of that in life, thoughts which drain me when I least expect it. We’ve a long road ahead of us, God willing, a million possibilities still at our feet, begging to be achieved.

You told me recently (and, Christ, so many times over the years) to slow down, words that came this time immediately when you realized stopping wasn’t an option. But I’m not moving through life any faster than one should. It’s the world at our feet that’s lagging behind.

You’ve never had much of a response to that philosophy of mine. You gave up trying this most recent time, rolling your eyes and failing to hide away your _why do I bother?_ smile.

“I’m not trying to piss you off, Edge,” I insisted, and it was true. What would I be, after all, if I didn’t stick to my guns and showcase just how passionate I am to my cause, the battle against dragging one’s feet? And who would I be, if I didn’t spend as much time as humanly possible trying to make you smile every which way that you’re capable of?

Curious business, you might say even when everyone else is considering a different leading word to use. It’s not like you to go along with other people though, is it, The Edge? And curious is certainly a way to consider such things.

But there’s more to it, isn’t there? A thousand thoughts bouncing around in that head of yours at any given time. Curious, messy, dangerous—three words, and countless others, that can be applied to the situation. If it even is a situation.

“What are we doing?” you ask me tonight, not long after attempting to sway me with that dirty four-letter word once more.

“Edge, I’ve absolutely no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” I answer before taking another drag of the cigarette I pretended did not exist when you called me out on it. There’s a difference between quitting and _quitting_ , you know. There’s being steadfast about letting go of preoccupations and craving until your brain forgets all about other important things, like parallel parking or lyrics that have been there since the very beginning.

“Bono, I’m being serious.”

“We’re not doing anything.” And it is the truth. A lifetime of shared glances, of you letting me hug you just long enough to rediscover my second home, is not, in comparison to certain other possible activities conjured up by a busy mind, things I would consider _anything_.

You let me kiss you on stage, you aggressively lord over me like some dominant sex god while I kick your guitar and manipulate the strings with the microphone or my fingers as though my thoughts are drifting elsewhere. And once this year (and perhaps a few times in our expansive past) I somehow found myself being pulled into your lap, discovering you to be warm and rosy-cheeked and a minute away from composing a love letter to the winery that made you (and myself, to a lesser extent) such a cheap fucking date.

But before then, before you could put pen to paper and lose track of what you were doing, you thought to tighten your hold until I had no choice but to laugh. You leaned in close and breathed into my neck, my ear. Saying more than any words ever could. And I know words, Edge. I’m extremely fond of them, in case you hadn’t figured that out yet. I even had a few spring to mind as I sat there on your lap, conscious of your hand at my hip, your mouth brushing against my skin. You smelled like a night of drinking and dancing, like your faded aftershave and my own cologne.

What could I say? Nothing seemed good enough, but when it was all said and done—another moment ruined by the sound of approaching footsteps, or a knock at the door, or even common sense swooping in just in time—a hint of self-pity came in to play.

There’s little that irritates me more than seeing a person wallow in misery when one small step forward will return them to a fortunate life. But to lose a chance when we were so close, and be forced to slip away from you and into the bathroom for some alone time . . . I’d like to think a moment of disappointment was warranted.

However, there was also something else in session, a sprinkling of relief, perhaps, or thankfulness for timely interruptions. _Thank god we didn’t_ is a sentence that has rushed through my mind a number of times (more so earlier on, and only once this year) as I looked your way in wonder, yet _fuck, I wish we had_ has been all I could think on so many nights.

Complicated business, you might say, and so should I, and I imagine we do, but only to ourselves. Still, it isn’t _anything_. Not once have I had the balls to sneak my hand down your pants or lean in and demand you kiss me first. It’s positively chaste, The Edge. Virginal. _Diabolical_.

“I don’t think your definition of the word _anything_ matches what’s in the dictionary, B.” Immediately, you seem like you regret saying such a thing. Yet you don't glance away when I turn to clock your intentions.

There’s a tripwire between us, did you know that? Of course you do. And I’m truly impressed by its hold, its strength. How taut it can be, despite fraying at both ends.

 _Will this do it_ , I’ve thought of myself asking you before putting my foot through, with the force of ten years of pent-up frustration, that metaphorical wire. _Does this come off_ , I’ve imagined myself saying in a similar voice—low, suggestive, one side of a wet dream taking place while I'm wide awake—as I finger the hem of your t-shirt, or the button of your jeans. And I’ve pictured both of us, at least twice, leaning in to whisper _tell me no again_ , as if it were a word that had passed between us in the first place. You haven’t glanced away, Edge. An immovable object. Not Jupiter. Something far warmer, closer to the Sun, to this very world. But what, I couldn’t tell you.

No matter how hard I try, I’ve never been able to read you in full. To know you completely. You’re not like me. You don’t saw open your breastbone every day to make your point, to ensure you’re being heard. Even now, you remain a bit of a mystery to me.

“If I,” you begin before faltering slightly, lacking the liquid courage that has often enticed you to get a bit handsy with me in private. “I don’t mean tonight, but . . .you know—”

“Yes,” I interrupt, an answer in full to your stumbling proposal, yet taken as encouragement to complete that thought. You still haven’t glanced away. I imagine your gravitational pull has mine beaten by a country mile.

“Would you tell me to stop?” You say it like you know my response, like you’re prepared for both a _yes_ and _no_ to come between us, as if you’re already planning to get up out of your chair and take those three steps toward mine. To kiss me, go down on me, walk right on back before a single finger can come close to touching my skin. You say it like you’re trying to figure out how quickly a frayed wire can be replaced. And people call me the complicated one. “Bono.” Your voice has turned urgent. You still haven’t glanced away. “Would you tell me to stop?”

“Edge,” I start, certain there is only one way to respond. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.”


End file.
